Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [67]
But first I go to see my mother, for the sense of duty weighs heavily upon me. When I arrive at Long Boy’s cottage I am surprised to see Anne Wycombe, the ironmonger’s wife, outside the door. She is bent over a washtub filled with bedclothes, and as I approach she pauses and rocks back on her heels, wiping a reddened forearm across her brow. Her hair is pulled severely back and covered by a kerchief, and the sleeves of her dark dress are rolled up to the elbows. She is a small, wiry woman of somewhat nervous disposition who has never borne children. Some years back it was rumored she would stop at nothing in the quest to end her barrenness, seeking out healers and soothsayers, quacksalvers and even white witches, all to no avail. There is something harsh and arid about her person, as if she herself was conceived and borne of desert dryness. And too, age and disappointment have curdled her expression.
She catches sight of me and races of alarm flash behind her eyes. She does not rise but nods to me nervously from her haunches.
“Good morrow, Anne. Is my mother within?” I ask. She shakes her head and eyes me suspiciously.
“She is with the magistrate. He sent for her this morning,” she says cautiously, as if I should already have heard this news.
“Do they accuse her?” I ask.
“I know not,” she says, averting her eyes. She picks up the soap mechanically and begins to scrub the bedclothes once again.
“What of the boy?” I ask. She stops and looks up at me.
“I am to tend him,” she says.
“Until she returns?” I ask. Anne shrugs, says nothing. Perhaps she is not expected to return. “Is he still with fever?”
“It has lessened,” she replies.
I stare at her. When I was thirteen she sought counsel from my mother. She came to us in a state of great agitation, twisting her apron nervously in her fingers. My mother took one look at her and sent me out to collect firewood, for I was too old to witness her despair. I remained some time away, knowing I would meet with my mother’s disapproval if I returned too soon. Finally, when my arms had grown numb from the weight of the kindling, I made my way back to the cottage. I knocked and entered and at once saw Anne Wycombe overcome with grief at the table. My mother sat immobile at her side, her lips pressed together in a thin line of concern. Shows of sympathy do not come easily to my mother, and I saw her shift uncomfortably in her chair. When Anne saw me she stopped and raised her head, and suddenly I felt implicated in her eyes: a bastard child, an accident. She stopped crying and watched as I stacked the kindling neatly by the fireplace. And then she rose silently, her eyes flooded with the bitterness of the barren, and took her leave without another word. When the door shut behind her my mother sighed. With one swift look she stilled my questions. We never spoke of Anne Wycombe again.
* * *
I am filled with dread as I make my way to the alehouse. I think to find Mary in the first instance, but when I enter through the kitchen it is empty, so I approach the door to the main room and peer within. I recognize the magistrate at once, having seen him on one other occasion, for his looks are such that one would not easily forget the sight of him. He is seated at the table and there is no sign of my mother, nor anyone else for that matter, and he is bent over several sheets of parchment, peering closely at them with the aid of a monocle. I enter the room silently and stand watching him for several moments, the only sound that of the repeated scratching of his quill upon the parchment. He writes slowly and precisely, pausing frequently to read what he has written. He wears a neatly powdered snow-white